


The Music or the Misery

by feverbeats



Category: Bandom RPF
Genre: Hot Drinks, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-30
Updated: 2009-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:48:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete wants to break into a thousand little rockstar-shaped pieces at Patrick's feet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Music or the Misery

**Author's Note:**

> My first Bandom fic, written before I'd gotten very far into the fandom. Warning: very brief mention of self harm.

Pete has a cycle. He's even pretty much figured out what it is: Write, cut, thoughts of suicide, cry, feel better, have an amazing day, write. And oh God, does the cycle ever suck. And ok, he's pretty much grown out of cutting. He's pretty much grown out of crying. He's worried that soon he'll grow out of writing, too.

And there's a _difference_, too, between wanting to kill yourself and wanting to die, but once you've threatened the second, you can never get away with the first without people jumping all over you.

That's why Pete can't tell Patrick how he's been feeling. Oh, he _wants_ to. He wants to so much that it's actually starting to hurt, in the back of his throat and behind his eyes. Pete is always exploding, but he doesn't want to do it this time. He doesn't want to deal with the questions he'd have to answer.

_Pete, are you ok?_

Well, no. He's not o-fucking-k. That's a lyric, one of Gerard's, he thinks. Pete curls up on his bed and tries to scribble lyrics in his notebook, but now all he's got in his head is a bunch of My Chem lyrics. Instead, he doodles in the margins. Maybe he'll get a new tattoo. His lyrics, or somebody else's.

Getting tattoos isn't exactly a coping mechanism, not any more than writing is. Only it's so much _easier_. He doesn't have to grind out words (it's getting so hard that even his pen hurts) onto paper. Even though completing a poem in the dead of night and then slipping it under Patrick's door _and not jerking off afterwards, no_ comes with a certain satisfaction, having ink etched deeply into his skin tends to be much better at warding off demons. He hasn't asked Patrick's opinion, mostly because Patrick would be sensible about it. Sensible is the last thing Pete is, and the first thing he wants. He wishes he knew how to make sense of shit, and he's tempted to ask how Patrick does it, but that would lead to a fucking Spanish Inquisition about Pete's mental state.

Truth is, Pete is afraid. What the fuck is he _doing_ with his life, anyway? He's too old to be playing emo teenager. Worse, he's playing emo teenager _professionally_. He's getting paid to avoid growing up. He's Peter fucking Pan, and he hates it. After all, they're all lost boys. That's the point. That sells. Patrick, however, is making a brave attempt at normal, and that doesn't sell quite as well. Having your shit together isn't _cool_ or _in_ or _scene_. However, Patrick seems to be quite content to live in Pete's media-bloated shadow, if that is what he's doing. Pete burrows deeper into his hoodie. He doesn't want Patrick to feel like he's being shoved aside.

_In the movie of my life, starring you instead of me_.

Pete wants to throw up. Too many of their lyrics come way to close to the skin in ways they were never intended to. He wrote them for _her_. He didn't write them for Patrick. Then again, if that were true, he wouldn't keep feeding Patrick his poetry. Pete fists his hands in the sheets. Rar. He'd rather not come out of his room and have to deal. The one thing that sucks about still living with his mom and dad is that they try to make him feel better.

Pete is not so much with the coping. He wishes the guys were here, because Joe and Andy tend to drown out Pete's siren-loud feelings for Patrick. Patrick's due to come over and pick Pete up in about ten minutes, and Pete's afraid that without a barrier, he'll melt all over Patrick and then blow him in a taxi or something. But because that would be the opposite of cool, Pete decides to get a grip.

And anyway, is he gay or what? Ok, there was the Girlfriend of Utter Misery and Awesome Lyrics, but what the fuck _ever_. Pete's so done with that. He wants to breathe. He wants the scars–all of them–to go away. Maybe being gay is his real coping mechanism. Ok, no, it's just that when he's with Patrick, all the fuzzy uncertainly around the edges of his world solidifies into beautiful, dorky, retarded love.

That's another issue entirely, and it's one he's pretty sure he already dealt with, maybe sorta kinda. It would be one thing if he wanted to jump Patrick. Being madly in love with him is a different problem.

He also realizes that some of his poetry is kind of repetitive. _I used to obsess over living, now I only obsess over you_. And then, _I used to waste me time dreaming of being alive, now I only waste it dreaming of you_. And it's not strictly about Patrick. Not really.

So many problems, so few answers. There's one answer that always works, though, and it's called Making Patrick Fix Shit. Pete curls up tighter and waits for the doorbell to ring.

*

When Pete answers the door, he's greeted by instant Patrick-smirk.

"What?" he grumbles.

"You," Patrick says, "Are so freaking emo."

Pete glares at Patrick from within the depths of his hoodie. "Rar. Go die in a hole."

Patrick shrugs. "C'mon, I'll buy you a coffee."

Pete notices that Patrick's wearing a very cute hat today, so, being the teenage girl that he is, he accepts. He even tries to smile. "Yeah. Ok."

*

The taxi ride is blissfully free of messy blowjobs and mad declarations of love, and Pete is feeling a little better by the time they spill out onto the curb outside Starbucks. He leans on Patrick a little. "Jeez, you really know how to treat a guy."

"Anything for you, princess," Patrick says, rolling his eyes.

Pete wants to punch him in the face and then go down on him. There being several issues with that plan, he immediately abandons it in favor of nudging his way into the store.

Starbucks is crowded, and Pete puts his hood up, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

Because, see, Starbucks is the place you go. It's a symbol of corporate America, and of artsy-broken culture, but it's become so much more. It's a place where people go with their laptops to write and order coffee and then write faster. It's a place for clients and bosses and lovers to meet. It's a place for bad-luck kids to curl up and cope.

Pete proceeds to fall in love with a girl he can only see from behind. The hood of her sweatshirt is up, but he likes the bright blue stitching on the back. However, he forgets about her two minutes later in the bustle of bright cashier smiles and shouted orders for things made with caramel and caffeine.

"You look all emo," Patrick says.

"No shit. Buy me coffee."

Patrick smiles and gets him a mocha.

Pete wants to break into a thousand little rockstar-shaped pieces at Patrick's feet. Fuck coping. He's going to retreat into his hood and be bitchy, because Patrick is letting him.

He curls up in a chair and takes the top of the cup off before stirring the hot liquid viciously and wondering why there isn't any whipped cream on it. "Why?" he asks.

And because Patrick clearly loves him more than life itself, he gets it. And he gets whipped cream.

"I want to die a little less now," Pete says.

"Yeah, _about_ that," Patrick says, frowning a little, and when he does that, his face does a little awesome creasey thing . . .

"Wuh?" Pete asks. "Sorry, I was zoning."

Patrick rubs one slightly chubby hand over the table-top. "Nothing, just . . . Are you ok?"

Ok, great. Pete knew the question was coming. Well, he's not going to answer. He pulls his legs in tighter to his body and remains stonily silent.

"Scone?" he demands after a minute. He doesn't really know what one is, but it sounds buttery and delicious, and Patrick probably needs the exercise.

Patrick sighs and gets up.

On second thought, Pete realizes, Patrick is now all the way over by the counter, and he is still here. He sits on his feet and tries not to breathe until Patrick gets back.

"Here," Patrick says, after way too long. "They didn't have any scones, but I got you a croissant."

"Whatever, I don't even care," Pete says, relieved. He dunks the croissant in his mocha. Patrick makes a face. "Don't _care_," Pete says again. The lights are too bright and there are too many people, and Pete's pretty sure he's acquiring whole new anxiety disorders.

Patrick is staring intently at the table. "Pete."

"Nonono. I am not in the mood, man. I don't wanna. Etc."

"The mood for what? Talking?" Patrick sounds vaguely irritated now, and Pete deserved irritation _ages_ ago.

"Sorry," he says. "I just don't want to talk about my 'issues' every second. I'm doing ok. Really."

He goes all fake-smiley, but damn it, Patrick's way smart and he's not buying it. He shakes his head firmly. "Nope, nice try. When you open the door looking like all of Evanescence on a bad angst day, I know something's up."

Well, ok. Patrick's pretty much his best friend, he deserves some answers. "I don't want to be Peter Pan," Pete says, after considering it.

And maybe Patrick has been reading Pete's poetry too long or something, but he gets that too. He nods. "Yeah, I understand. So don't. Be Peter Wentz."

That's the most fucking obnoxious thing ever, so of course it makes Pete smile.

*

They ride the taxi back through the city, both smelling like coffee, Pete leaning on Patrick because he can. The summer night–warm verging on hot–hums between them like it wants to make sense of Pete as much as Patrick does.

"Hey," Patrick says after a few minutes of silence.

_I thought I loved you, it was just how you looked in the light_. Pete shudders. "Patrick . . . I've got all this crap I want to say to you, but I'm afraid it's just another load of emo shit poetry, and I want to mean it. I want to care about you because I do, not because it's scene. I don't want to think you're pretty, I want to love you."

Patrick is very, very quiet. The city lights flash by on his face in the dark as they speed through the city, and ok, Pete may have just confessed his love like he promised himself he wouldn't. "Well," Patrick says finally, "That's a good thing. Because I'm not pretty."

"Which means _what_?" Pete asks, scared and impatient to see if Patrick's gonna kick him out of the taxi.

Patrick shrugs. "Which means you'd better love me."

Pete wants to pound his head on the seat in front of him. Is that as close to a declaration of love as he's going to get back? "Look, dude," he says, "I'm freaking out here, and nothing works, and I just want to know if you love me or if you're gonna leave me on the curb."

"You moron," Patrick says, and he kisses Pete.

It's awkward and messy, _A teenager kiss_, Pete thinks. He was caught off-guard, and their mouths slip together not-quite-right. Pete wants so badly not to fuck this up. But Patrick, he thinks, doesn't know how to fuck things up. Patrick, who is now kind of moaning into his mouth a little, and _oh_. Pete's brain finally shuts up.

*

After the taxi driver kicks them out, they manage to make it back to Pete's house without Pete saying something dumb or exploding all over Patrick in a volcano of cartoon hearts and come. Pete's parents aren't home, thank God. _I have_ got _to get my own place_, he thinks, as Patrick pulls him up the stairs. It's a little awkward because they aren't talking, but then again, what do you say, really, when you're all in love with your best friend and neither of you mentioned it until today?

"Bed," Pete finally manages. Then, "Bed?" Because, hey, it should be a request when you're asking to fuck someone. Or be fucked. Or ohgod, he doesn't even have any _idea_ if he's going to be able to handle this. "Too hot," he says, tugging apologetically at his neckline, and he knows he's being a brat. Patrick sighs and tosses the blankets on the floor. "Sheet," Pete says.

Patrick wraps the sheet around him. "You got it, princess."

Pete smacks him. "Quit calling me that! At least I'm not made of dorky."

Patrick looks like he wants to retort or argue or something, but he kisses Pete instead. This time, it's different. Pete sucks Patrick's lip slowly, like maybe it's not a kiss, but hey, it ain't exactly mouth-to-mouth. Why call it anything? Maybe because Patrick likes to name things, to scatter Pete's cryptic phrases and then put them back together into sentences. Patrick would want to name this. Right now he's making a noise like he doesn't care, though, and Pete sucks harder.

Patrick slides his hands under Pete's hoodie, under his t-shirt. His hands brush Pete's nipples, sensitive and _ready_. Pete makes a noise somewhere between a whimper and a laugh. "Ow, shit." His lip is bleeding. He must have bitten it. The backs of his knees are pressed against the bedframe, and he's ready to fall over backwards and give up completely.

And amazing, competent Patrick gets it. "Hey. _Easy_. Lie down."

Pete swallows and complies, because _augh_. He is going to have The Sex. With Patrick. He's torn between _freaking the fuck out_ and writing it in his blog. In caps lock.

Patrick is shedding clothes remarkably quickly. Pete blinks. Ok, Patrick should not be so good at undressing. He'll have to quit the band and become stripper.

Patrick frowns, looking a little hurt. "Hey, what are you smirking at?"

Ok, oops, Pete didn't mean to make Patrick self-conscious. Maybe even Patrick doesn't have a perfect happy shiny brain full of unicorns all the time. Pete wants to say he's sorry, but instead he says, "You're a stripper."

"Oh my God, you're a freak," Patrick says, but he loses the rest of his clothes, so he must like freaks at least a little.

This time the kiss is like dynamite. It's explosive and there are sparks and it really kind of hurts because there are _teeth_, too. Pete suddenly finds a pressing need to be as naked as Patrick. All he manages, however, is, "No clothes now oh my god please."

Patrick hesitates. "You sure? I mean, because you're kind of freaking out right now. And I want this to be, you know. Not full of freaking out."

And so does Pete, he really, really does. He just doesn't no how to stop being a drama queen. "'k," he says, when he's breathed for a second and recovered part of his brain, "Can we do it like this? I can, um, y'know. Unzip my pants." He proceeds to do so, not really freaking out any less, but at least being confident that Patrick _isn't_ freaking out.

Patrick blushes, finally. "Oh, yeah. Sure. Yeah, that works."

Thanking God, or someone, Pete rolls over, yanking his jeans down. "Patrick." He needs, and he doesn't want to slow or pretty or correct right now. He wants to lose his mind and get it over with. After this, they'll have time. They'll have a lifetime to make love. Right now he wants to fuck.

Patrick the super-genius understands. And, amazingly, he has condoms and lube. Maybe he's smarter than Pete gave him credit for, or Pete is less subtle.

And then, Patrick's fingers are inside Pete, two of them, bruising and pushing too deep, and Pete can't breathe from the awesome. Patrick is gonna fix him, Patrick is gonna fuck him, and Pete's gonna–

"Shit!" Pete moans.

Woah. Ok. Look around. Cope. Huh. That hardly even counts as fucking premature ejaculation. Then again, Pete's been waiting for this since he _met_ Patrick, so that's not entirely fair.

Patrick laughs. "Did you just come? You are _ridiculous_."

"I can blow you," Pete says apologetically, still freaking out that he's saying these things to _Patrick_.

"No," Patrick says, "That's ok. Not tonight. You'd probably bite me."

"Love. I. Love you." Pete is apparently completely incoherent, which is lame, because he's the writer here.

"Move over," Patrick says amicably.

Pete rolls over and Patrick flops next to him on the bed, naked and rolled into Pete's sheet. Pete wants to cling to him forever and just fucking _breathe_. Hey, why not? No one's telling him not to. He wraps his arms around Patrick's neck.

Patrick strokes a hand down Pete's spine, under his hoodie. "You too, you know. With the love."

It never occurred to Pete that it might be _hard_ for Patrick to say something like that. Maybe it is. Was. Whatever, it's out now. Pete can breathe properly. He relaxes against Patrick.

And hey, Pete has a thousand words and Patrick has a thousand tunes, and together they could probably take over the world. For now, though, Pete's stranded out here in the middle of nowhere, homesick at space camp, having the ride of his life and wishing he could stop flipping out. It's the stupidest thing in the history of ever, but it's still true. He wants to burn his girl-jeans and his hoodies and just breathe into Patrick's ear for the rest of his life.

"Hey, kid," Patrick says, and the word kid has behind it the weight of a hundred meanings. It's not a pet name or anything like that. It's Patrick fessing up that yeah, they're scene, and they're trapped and fucked up by their image and everything else.. "Let it go," Patrick says, brushing Pete's hair out of his eyes.

_Oh_. Well, yeah, Pete can do that. He lies back and breathes. "Ok. It's going. I just . . . We're sinking, Patrick, we're going _down_."

"Sugar, we're going down swinging," Patrick whispers.

Pete shakes his head, surprised. "But dude, that's nothing. Just some bullshit I wrote."

"I kinda think it's a lot," Patrick say, resting his hand on Pete's stomach.


End file.
